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“That is a good pet,” Ilya says as he watches her closely, a hungry look in his eyes.
Whitney responds visibly to his praise, which intrigues me. Though I feel somewhat uncomfortable by the level of humiliation going into their game, Whitney doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she seems eager to please Ilya and sad when she doesn’t, just like a pet might, though his Russian term for her would hint that she’s more his slave than an animal.
When they reach the far wall, he unleashes her and tells her to get a toy. Whitney rises to her feet and studies the wall, almost as if his request is a test. Grabbing a set of nipple clamps, she brings them back to Ilya.
“No.” Ilya’s expression darkens. “You know which toy I want. Bring me the toyIwant to play with,” he insists, his tone growing more forceful.
Biting her lip, Whitney returns to the wall to find a different toy. This time, she comes back with furry handcuffs.
“No!” Ilya says again.
Whitney returns to the wall once more, this time grabbing a flogger more confidently and returning to Ilya. Growling, Ilya takes the flogger from her and throws it on the floor.
“You think you’re funny,rabynya? You think this is about what you enjoy?”
“No, Master,” she breathes, her eyes growing wide.
“Then what toy did I want you to get?”
Whitney scrambles over to the table where Ilya first laid out several toys and brings back a string of metal beads.
“Yes, so why didn’t you bring that to me in the first place?” he demands.
Whitney swallows and shakes her head wordlessly.
Looping his finger through her collar, Ilya leads Whitney across the room to a swing. “Get in,” he commands. He turns to me. “This is how I punish her for being a bad pet,” he explains, withdrawing a small silicon stick from his pocket. “It is a shock collar of sorts, though I imagine you have your own more effective training tools.”
Braced in the seatless swing, Whitney grips the straps that hang from the ceiling as she hooks her knees through two loops. Clicking the silicon stick, Ilya brings it to life, and it hums. Whitney’s breathing quickens as Ilya spreads her legs and presses the tip of the stick to the peak of her thighs. Whitney squeals as something crackles, and her back arches as she grips the straps above her.
Then Ilya presses aside the small diamond of black fabric covering Whitney so he can insert the stick inside her. Whitney moans as her hips rock, spreading her legs further. Clearly, she’s enjoying the punishment, and when Ilya asks what she has to say for herself, she cries an apology.
“Please, Master,” she moans as her muscles twitch in a way that tells me she’s experiencing some form of electric pulse. But her voice is drenched in arousal.
Both embarrassed to be witnessing something so intimate and, at the same time, fascinated by their dynamic, I can’t tear my eyes from their scene. While Ilya’s commands and words might be degrading and cruel, he’s almost entirely focused on Whitney’s pleasure as he toys with her. She seems to be enjoying the attention rather than fighting it.
Seeing the intensity of her pleasure makes my stomach quiver as I think about the possibility of finding that same kind of experience with someone. An image of Nicolo comes to mind, and the memory of my forced orgasms at the club makes my panties suddenly wet. I watch Whitney rock in the swing, her body trembling as she quickly reaches her first orgasm. I’m blown away by the way they play so naturally together. Ilya seems to love the control over Whitney, even to the point of punishing her with pleasure.
I wonder if Nicolo and I might ever be capable of reaching that level. I definitely find him attractive. My body can’t seem to resist his touch, but he doesn’t seem to care whether I like him or not, even when he’s not fucking me. Regardless of how he might like to use me in the bedroom, I don’t see him being willing to let go of his aggression when he isn’t. He’s proven himself capable of being charming, but he doesn’t seem to care enough about me to grace me with it.
25
NICOLO
For the fifth time in an hour, I check my phone to see if Anya’s responded to my text about tonight. I don’t know if she’s intentionally ignoring me, but it’s unacceptable, and I’m about ready to track her down, march right up to her apartment, and demand entrance if she doesn’t tell me where she is soon. Part of the agreement is that she be accessible to me whenever I want so long as it doesn’t interfere with her classes, and I’ve given her most of Saturday to do whatever the fuck she wants.So where the fuck is she?
Grinding my teeth, I drop my head back onto the cushion of my penthouse couch, closing my eyes to the vibrant sunset before me. The city view from the picture windows can’t distract me today. Usually, my Astor House apartment is a perfect place to find tranquility. I feel free here, high above the city bustle. But now it feels more like the waiting room of a doctor’s office as I think about how little I’ve seen Anya this week, what with all her extra hours of practice with that new partner. I’m trying to cooperate since I get that I’m the one who broke her last partner’s arm, but now she’s ignoring me even on the weekend.
My phone dings in my palm, and I snatch it up, grateful no one is around to see how quickly I respond to a text that might be Anya. But it’s not. It’s from Matteo, one of the guys who work with me for my father. Grudgingly, I open the text, not in the mood to think about the family business right now. My hand grips spastically as I take in the image he sent me, along with a brief note:
Saw your girl meet up with a couple at Incognito. Just thought you ought to know.The image is of a dark-haired girl–the one with a pixie cut I’ve seen in the dance studio with Anya–she’s leaning across one of the club’s lounge tables to hold Anya’s hand. The man next to her I recognize from the Popov family, one of the bratvas on the north side of Chicago that my family has maintained good business with for years. Ilya has a reputation for some pretty dark kinks, and it appears one of those is fucking two girls at once.
Fucking bitch! Anya’s ghosting me to swing with one of her dance friends?Fury roars to life in my chest, and I’m up off the couch before I even know what I’m doing. The thought of that Russian beast’s hands on Anya makes me see red, especially when she’s supposed to be with me right now. If she thinks she’s ready for another taste of Incognito, I’ll give her one she’ll never forget.
Storming past Seb and Rocco with a cursory command for them to stay put, I head to the elevator and ride it down to my car. I’m peeling out a moment later and racing down the streets of Chicago to the club.
As soon as Tiffany sees me burst through the front door, her eyes grow wide with shock.
“What room is that piece of shit Russian in?” I demand.
